Wildflower
by define-serenity
Summary: [Sebastian/Blaine] "What's this?" He draws a thumb underneath the face paint that runs below Blaine's eyes, a row of daisies stretching from his left eye, over his nose, to his right eye. "Daisies," –Blaine giggles– "Tina was making necklaces, but we have to think about your allergies."


Sebastian/Blaine, 2620 words, pg-rated, for **Seblaine Spring Fling**, day three: **allergies**. co-written with **anisstaranise**.

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**_Wildflower_**

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Grass crunches beneath the soles of his slippers, the scent of it rife in the air alongside lemonade and bubblegum, the dulcet buzz of the crowd lapping at his other senses. People spread out in groups of three or more across the meadow, drinking from red cups, chatting, busying themselves with the few dozen side activities to the festival. _Flower Power_ it's called, a cheesy name for an equally cheesy happening, so of course his boyfriend helped organize it with a bunch of his friends.

His eyes search the crowd for a single person, the only one who matters, and quickly finds his cheesy guy in animated conversation with Tina, the other half of the dynamic duo. Tina waves at him with a big smile he feels obligated to return, but it's not hard once Blaine turns around and makes a straight dash towards him. He'd already unbuttoned his shirt because of the radiant weather, but Blaine sported expensive blue bermuda shorts under a simple white tee, somehow much better at handling hot weather than he is.

"Hey, you." Blaine comes at him smiling ear to ear, and not for the first time he wonders how he ever got so lucky. He wasn't that much of a cynic before he met Blaine, but knowing Blaine has effectively cleared his skies.

"What's this?" He draws his left thumb underneath the face paint that runs below Blaine's eyes, a row of daisies stretching from his left eye, over his nose, to his right eye, but sweeps down before Blaine gets the chance to answer, plucking a sweet kiss from his boyfriend's lips.

"Daisies," –Blaine giggles, rising on his toes for a few brief moments, but starts playing with his fingers once he figures out he won't be getting any more kisses until he answers– "Tina was making necklaces, but we have to think about your allergies."

He leans in again, teasing the distance between their mouths, the memory of the day they met breezing in his chest like butterfly wings. "Always so thoughtful."

"Always such a tease," Blaine whispers, one of his hands landing over his heart, his other arm folding around his neck so he can't escape again. He nips at Blaine's lips, lost in the scent of warm skin, raspberry gel, and the taste of strawberries. It's been four months now since their spring time meeting, since their first date, their first kiss and their first night together, and while there have been rainy days, Blaine brings sunlight into his life like no other person has done before.

"Have you been using Sam's chapstick again?"

"Hmm," Blaine hums to his lips. "Why? You jealous?"

"I might be if he wasn't making out with his girlfriend."

Blaine turns his head, following his gaze across the meadow towards Sam and Quinn, dancing near the stage, their lips locked in a kiss.

"They're so cute," Blaine sighs happily, hugging closer.

"They have nothing on us."

And he can practically hear Blaine coo at the sound of that, the kind of sentimental drabble one doesn't usually hear from Sebastian Smythe. Blaine reaches both his arms around his neck, rocking their bodies slightly left to right. "I thought you were allergic to all that."

He smiles. "I met this guy in a flower shop who changed my mind."

Blaine's smile barely disappears when his lips close over his again, their bodies melting into each other, heat be damned, daisies dancing before his eyes before they fall shut. It's the height of summer and he's in love with a boy with flowers on his face; he doesn't like living in the past, and why linger on what happened once when what's happening right now holds all the future's potential?

But he can't help but reminisce about the day he and Blaine met.

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He never really got flowers. He knows what they are, obviously, he even knows how some of them come to be, but he never understood why people liked flowers, peppered their homes with them until they were all you could see. Some of them smelled nice and he supposes some of them even have a certain aesthetic quality to them, but why would anyone spend money on an intricately colored bouquet that wilts within days?

For as long as he can remember his mom had flowers around the house; his dad never bought her any, though after the divorce plenty of them came from her new suitors; lilies, sun flowers, gerber daisies, white roses, red roses, tulips, and when they weren't around his mom went out and bought her own. She has rose bushes in the front yard and an entire bed of plants and flowers she tends to in a large garden.

And he knows better than to show up for lunch without a fresh bouquet.

He sniffles, his throat a little scratchy, but he chalks that up to the airconditioning in the room. The shop smells like fertilizer, the highly expensive kind, the dominant scent rife with blooms and buds and blossoms, all kept fresh and green by a cold flow of air. All the flowers and plants are arranged on high tables throughout the shop, raised to eye-level so no one but small children could possibly miss them.

His eyes turn watery as he makes his way further into the shop, a chill runs up his sinuses and he barely manages to pull a tissue from his pocket and cover it over his mouth when he sneezes, once, twice, three times in a row, his chest aching under the strain.

A voice sounds from the back of the store, "If you have allergies you shouldn't be in a closed room."

"It's not the flowers," he says, clearing his nose in the tissue. "It's all this love in the air."

"Cynics aren't welcome either," comes the voice.

Sebastian smiles, eyes ticking over orchids, gardenias, hyacinths, while he steadily weaves his way towards the counter to find the source of his sudden conscience. "I'm not a cynic," he says. "Just not much of a romantic."

When he finally locates the counter he's surprised to find a boy his age behind it, dressed in a comfortable mustard yellow sweater, a name tag over his chest, gorgeous black hair styled back to keep it from his face, and undoubtedly the most fascinating eyes he has beheld in a long time.

"That's sad," the boy says, the pen in his hand lingering over what appears to be an invoice.

"What about you?" His eyes track down to the white name tag. "_Blaine_." He rolls the name around in his mouth, a pleasant sound to accompany a pleasant appearance. "Are you a romantic?"

"Yes, I am," Blaine answers without blinking, as if the conviction has spun into the strands of DNA that make up his entire persona.

"Too bad."

Blaine blinks. "Too bad?"

"I was going to ask you out, but now–"

Blaine laughs, catching on quickly. "It could never work out between us."

He settles down with his elbows on the counter, distracting Blaine from his invoice some more. "I don't suppose you could choose some flowers for me? I am in dire need, and I couldn't care less."

For long moments Blaine seems to size him up, his honey eyes pinned in his like they're trying to make a home for themselves, judging, weighing his options, until all of a sudden Blaine casts his eyes down to the papers on the counter. "Spring puts most people in a good mood."

"I'm not most people," he's quick to answer.

If averting his eyes was some way to hide his reactions Blaine fails miserably, the smile that stretches around his mouth lights up the entire room, in much the same way flowers can. Blaine takes a deep breath, and, without trying to hide his amusement, looks up at him again. "Why are you buying flowers then?"

He groans. He hadn't counted on having to admit this to the man of his dreams. "They're for my mom."

"See?" Blaine raises an eyebrow, a hint of cocky in the way he straightens his shoulders. "There's a romantic in you after all."

He wonders if that means he stands a chance in hell with Blaine.

"What's your mom like?" Blaine asks, grabbing a blank piece of paper. "What kind of person is she?"

_Okay_. Who knew that buying flowers would lead to him talking about his mom to a cute stranger?

"She enjoys a certain lifestyle," he says. "Expensive wine, expensive jewellery, expensive clothes. She likes spending the money she works for, surround herself with important people. And she likes people to know this about her, too."

If Blaine's tempted to make a comment he doesn't show it; he looks over the few notes he made and purses his lips, which is just about the cutest thing he's ever seen. "I have just the thing she'll like." Blaine smiles. "If you want to add a card, feel free to pick one."

Blaine disappears in the back of the store, leaving him to leaf through the small stand of cards next to the cash register. He ends up choosing the first he comes across and writes down _Love, Sebastian_, aware his mother will appreciate whatever sentiment he pens down.

"The Stargazer Lily symbolizes, wealth and prosperity, but also romance." Blaine comes back with a small vase filled with three pink lilies, beautiful in its simplicity. "It's a hybrid cross between and Asiatic and an Oriental lily, they smell nice, and they last long."

"Sounds– perfect," he says as he gazes at the small flower arrangement, simple, neat, perfect.

Blaine leans in a little, those gorgeous eyes narrowing on him. "I'm really good at what I do."

For some reason unknown to him his heart presses tight against his ribcage, a smile flutters unrestrained to every inch of his face, and his palms turn sweaty. In his nineteen years he's hardly met anyone who could keep up with him so easily.

"I suppose you have a love interest stashed away somewhere."

Blaine leans back, eyes widening at his forward implication. "I don't."

"You're completely free to give me your number then."

Blaine faces away shyly, grabbing some scissors to cut off a long white ribbon. "I'm really not supposed to date customers," he says, fitting the ribbon around the rim of the vase, tying it into an intricate bow once he adds the card.

"Who said anything about dating? You could be my– spring fling."

He catches his own lie the moment it leaves his lips; he'd date the hell out of Blaine if it meant spending more time with the boy, but why sacrifice the flirty back-and-forth for sentimental drabble? Why show all his cards when Blaine hasn't said yes yet?

"Come on," he insists.

Blaine finds his eyes again, and taps his fingers on the counter, a clear signal that he'll have to work a lot harder than that. But he's more than game.

"Tell you what," he says, and tracks back a few steps to steal a single daisy away from its brothers and sisters. "We'll let the flowers decide."

Slowly, intently, he plucks a first petal off the daisy. "Blaine will say yes."

Blaine giggles.

He pulls at a second petal. "Blaine will say no, and break my heart."

A third petal soon dwindles down. "Blaine will say _of course, Sebastian, I'd love to be your spring fling_."

Blaine's shoulders start shaking with laughter, but he shows no signs of answering his question. So he plucks a fifth petal, ignoring the scratch at the back of his throat. "Blaine will say _no chance in hell, not a cynic like you_."

Around the eight petal he pulls off he starts wondering if Blaine's simply testing him to see how long he can keep this up, rather than turning him down - he doesn't get much of a chance to think about it though, his nose gets stuffy and his eyes water again and before he can add to the next, "Blaine will-" he starts sneezing uncontrollably. One, two, three times, but the roof of his mouth won't stop itching and he can barely catch his breath.

"Oh my God," Blaine exclaims. "Yes! Yes, I'll be your– spring fling."

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Of all the flower shops he could've walked into that day, in all the cities, in all the world, he walked into Blaine's. He isn't sure how one would calculate the likelihood of choosing a random shop and meeting the love of his life, but the chances must be staggeringly slim. Yet here they are, their relationship moved well past a mere spring fling, blossomed into something real and serious. Depending on the varying definitions of serious they go through, that is.

"Come on, I'll paint you some too."

Blaine entwines their fingers and whisks him towards the body paint stand, where he sits him down on a stool and grabs all the tools he needs; white paint and a dash of yellow, and two brushes so he doesn't mix the colors together. He opens his legs to fit Blaine in between, happily reverent of the way Blaine's eyes shine, the permanent smile in his lips, the utter focus he has on the work at hand.

His eyes trace over the line of daisies below Blaine's eyes and revels in how wonderfully full circle this all feels.

He lifts his face towards the sun and closes his eyes, grabbing around Blaine's hips as an anchor. The first yellow dot tickles right below his right eye, Blaine switching brushes immediately after; the white paint is equally cold to his skin, soft, short brushes to complete the first daisy, a kiss brushing his lips soon after.

His hands slide around to Blaine's ass, pulling him flush against his body. "I didn't know kisses were part of the service here."

"Here at _Flower Power_ we're all about all-round customer service." Blaine giggles, swapping brushes again. He rolls his eyes fondly, his chest expanding around the wildflower growth of his heart. "We aim to please."

Another yellow dot joins the other on his cheek before Blaine starts on the petals.

"He loves me," Blaine says, the whimsical brushstroke knitting deep underneath his skin. He would stop Blaine right there if he knew he'd get away with it, because yes, yes, he loves Blaine, he fell in love their first date and he's been falling ever since - but there's no reason he can't play this out.

"He loves me not," Blaine whispers.

He shakes his head as far as his position allows.

Blaine adds a third petal, "He loves me a whole lot," and a fourth, "He doesn't love me at all," which earns him a slap to his ass. "He worships me," Blaine giggles halfway through the sixth brushstroke, the seventh followed by, "He can't stand the sight of me."

"Perish the thought," he mumbles, the last petal too horrible too ignore - who could ever hate the sight of Blaine, dressed in his tight shorts or naked in his bed, who in their right minds would avert his eyes? Still, he remains silent, curious to see how far Blaine will take this.

Another brushstroke follows, "I'm his one and only," and he smiles in the quiet knowledge that Blaine is his one and only, the boy in all his dreams.

"He wants to date other people," Blaine's voice lowers to a whisper again.

He laughs. "You're really fishing for a compliment, aren't you?"

Blaine wraps his arms around his neck, apparently done with the second daisy. "You know what I'm fishing for."

And yes, he knows what Blaine wants to hear right down to the yellow core of his heart, like he knew waking up next to Blaine the first night they spent together, all sleepy eyes and tousled curls, a warm hand over his heart and the scent of roses on the nightstand, kisses to his shoulder and then his lips and it slipped out in between the centripetal force of his heartbeat -

"He loves you," he says softly, fingers snaking underneath Blaine's shirt, thumbing circles into his hips.

Blaine falls forward and captures his lips, copy-pasting two daisies onto his own cheek, his own "I love you too," seeded into a deep kiss.

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**_fin_**

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End file.
